For the nightlife, ‘safe spaces’ are increasingly important
WHEN Kate Ross first came out, she would go to lesbian bars and parties by herself. She didn’t exactly get a warm welcome. At the lesbian dance party She Rex, which used to pop up at Chief Ike’s Mambo Room in DC, she says a fellow partygoer took one look at her high heels and long hair and called her a “confused straight girl”.
“I shaved off all my hair and had a mohawk,” she says. “No one questioned me after that.”
Moments such as those led the 33-year-old, who works in small-business management, to help found the Coven, a safe space that has expanded to include a monthly dance party, a book club, theatre trips and panel discussions over the past few years. Though the concept has gotten backlash on college campuses for potentially threatening free speech, safe spaces have become increasingly important at bars and nightclubs, activists say, particularly in the aftermath of last year’s attack at the LGBT nightclub Pulse in Orlando.
But what constitutes a safe space isn’t the same for everyone, and organisers such as Ross – who seek to welcome all, regardless of sexual orientation, ethnicity or gender identification – are facing resistance, including from the very community they’re trying to welcome.
Critics have accused Ross’s parties of not being “really queer”, raising the question of whether safe spaces must be exclusive to be truly “safe”. For some, it’s a requirement; for others, a space can’t be safe if it isn’t exclusive to the audience it represents.
For everyone, it seems to be a conversation in progress.
“There is a lot of alienation and silos in our community,” Ross says.
Promoters like Ross see safe spaces as addressing the pitfalls that the nightlife world can present to marginalised groups, including discrimination by doormen and bouncers, disparaging remarks, and unwanted sexual advances. At her parties, Ross tries to create a welcoming environment by introducing herself to people who look like they’re there by themselves.
Kristy Chavez-Fernandez, who co-founded the Anthology of Booty and Maracuyeah collectives, the latter of which typically throws parties at the Salvadoran-Mexican restau- rant Judy’s, also hosts events that are “mixed” and never exclusive. “We learned a lot of lessons about the different needs, identities and stories of the people who were coming to the party” by having it be inclusive, she says.
For her, creating a safe space means continually being aware of the various dynamics – “gentrification, class, race, ethnicity, language, migration status” – at play.
That has led to a variety of policies: free water for dancers, de-escalating situations that could lead to police intervention and not charging the restaurant’s regulars so they aren’t displaced by a dance party. At Anthology of Booty events, hosted by an all-female DJ collective, organisers riffed on the Ten Commandments – “thou shalt honour thy neighbour’s booty” – to let patrons know that sexual harassment would not be tolerated.
Chavez-Fernandez acknowledges there’s still a need for exclusive spaces, and Lee Levingston Perine, founder of Makers Lab, a DC-based collective that hosts events for the queer community, agrees. Along with Ross, Perine was among the promoters who started to speak up about segregation in queer events last fall, eventually teaming up with several others for an inclusive New Year’s Eve event at Old Engine 12, attended by about 700 people.
Bars are also seeing a need to engage in these conversations. Last year, the DC-based grassroots organisation Collective Action for Safe Spaces officially launched its Safe Bars initiative, a training programme that Director Jessica Raven says “helps bar staff recognise subtle signs of aggression and signals that someone might feel unsafe or uncomfortable”. For example, if a bartender senses that a customer feels unsafe, they could make up a distraction – “You asked when the bathroom would be open and it’s open now” – to help.
The initiative, which ran as a pilot programme from 2013 to 2015, consists of a twohour training and costs $500. If 80 percent of a bar’s staff is trained, the bar receives a “Safe Bar” distinction and decal. So far, the organisation has certified 38 local establishments.
“When people who host events at bars are committed to creating safe spaces where people are treated with dignity and respect,” Raven says, “that makes it less likely for harassment and violence to occur.”
U Street Music Hall hasn’t participated in the Safe Bars training but owner Will Eastman trains staffs to be open and accommodating. For him, creating a safe space is a constant effort that’s involved in every decision he makes.
A few years ago, he says, a contracted security guard tried to throw out two shirtless men who were dancing together. “From that guard’s background, he thought that a couple guys dancing with their shirts off was inappropriate,” recalls Eastman, who fired the guard on the spot.
“It’s an ongoing thing,” he says. “You don’t just open your doors and say, ‘We’re a safe space for the queer community’ – you gotta keep thinking about it.”